I braved some favorite clothing stores recently looking for what would amount to a decent, festive Christmas sweater.

Something without brown snowflakes, or gender-non-specific penguin families, or herds of puff-paint moose galloping with merry holiday abandon. And that's when I noticed...

What's with all the short-sleeved sweaters?

Now, I may be wrong, but it seems to me a sweater without anything to keep your arms warm is not, in fact, a sweater. Sweat doesn't enter into it, see? Frostbite, yes. Goosebumps, yes. Freezing to death on a sooty stoop selling matches for two-pence in the snow, yes. Sweat-- highly unlikely.

To paraphrase the character Edmund Blackadder, "What you have there, Percy, if anything, is an -Er."

And I am well-aware that Fashion-- the people that brought us fake eyeglasses for people with perfect vision, and jeans that only begin in the posterior under-awning region-- isn't exactly the industry of practicality. But this... this just seemed like the whole sweater rack is having some low self-esteem identity crisis.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the sweater says, slouching a little more on the hanger. "I just don't feel comfortable tackling the duties of being a sweater all by myself. My generation of sweaters was taught the importance of teamwork. It's all group projects these days. Achieving total sweater success by myself would just be arrogant... above myself... showing off. So, um, I'm gonna just need you to pick up my long-sleeved yet more lightweight thermal undershirt friend over here to go with me. That'll be an extra $20, please, 'kay, thanks."

"But... but I don't want to layer," I tell it. "I just want one single-tasking sweater."

"Well," continues the short-sleeved creation, fringe purposefully preventing it from meeting my gaze, "I'm afraid it's either the two of us, lady, or you freeze your pinecones off this holiday season. I never go anywhere without my BFF. Or," suggests the sweater with a new, flirty tone of hope, "you could always add my friend over here..."

"Another friend?" I ask hesitantly.

"Meet... the poncho!"

"Hiiii," says the poncho giggling. On closer inspection, it appears that this poncho was designed to only go around the neck and shoulders. It is not a poncho. It is, in truth, some sort of micro-poncho, a pon or perhaps a cho, a wooly dinner napkin with a hole cut through for the neck. If it were in white, it could be the collar of a Carmelite nun-- who also, coincidentally, does a lot of layering. In fleecy purple, however, it looks like Aunt Dottie's arthritis kicked up in the middle of a thoughtful Christmas gift which will be pushed back to next year.

"I'm leaving," I tell the garments. "That sweater I saw with the brown snowflakes perched on the yellow snowbank wasn't really so bad..."

So over the past few weeks, I have come home from work anticipating my next installment in a brand new form of entertainment-- the answering machine message saga featuring the family of one "Orange-Ray Junior."

Now, part of this is my fault, and I take responsibility for it; on my landline answering machine, I had left the default computerized male voice that instructed callers to leave a message at the beep without recording my own message. This was for two reasons-- one, every time my power goes out it wipes out any customized message and I have to re-record it. And two, I didn't really want strangers to know who lived at the address. Safety reasons, dontchaknow.

But to the family of one "Orange-Ray Junior," the fact that they kept calling a number day after day, and Orange-Ray the Younger never connected with them, appears to have been no major red flag that something was amiss.

Initially, I couldn't tell what name it was these determined folks were even saying due to the uniqueness of the name and the family's hearty Southern drawl. But last night's episode, courtesy of "Nana-Pam," clarified the moniker of our remarkably social leading man.

The series began like this:

"Now, Orange-Ray Junior, Paw-paw said he'd go huntin' with ya, so you give him a call back." (Click.)

I suspect Orange-Ray the Second did not make that call.

Two days later:

"Orange-Ray Junior, you got that appointment you gotta git to, so you be there, you hear me? I think this is yer phone, ain't it?"

I'm not clear on how asking an answering machine could resolve that question when you never leave a call back number, but maybe the family has a nuanced insight into that which I don't.

About four days after this:

"Orange-Ray, you coming over the hill yet? Okay now, bye." (click)

At this point, I'm dying to know where in tarnation, with a Pittsburgh city area code, these people were calling from.

And presumably if they knew O-R, Jr. should be coming over the hill, they talked to him at some point between the answering machine messages I received. So did no one ask him over the Thanksgiving festivities about his number?

Apparently not. Because, last night, as I swept in from work, I saw another red light flashing on my answering machine. My hand reached for the button with excitement. Could it possibly be?

Once I got done laughing, I decided I would let Orange-Ray's family off the hook-- in a very literal way-- by leaving them a message. It is as follows:

"You have reached the answering machine of a person who is not, in fact, Orange-Ray Junior.

"If you'd like to leave a message for me, that would be terrific!

"If you're a member of Orange-Ray Junior's family, I'm sorry, I don't know where he is, but he doesn't live here. I think he gave you all the wrong number. Good luck!"

And I imagine this should clear up any confusion on their end. But I admit, I'm going to miss the messages.

I am going to miss the visions I had of the Orange-Ray Junior clan, heading up over hills, going hunting with Paw-paw, hanging out with Nana-Pam, and using a compact, sectionable fruit as a name that carries on from one generation to the next.

Thank you for the joy, Orange-Ray. You have made the past weeks merrier ones.

12-16-11- UPDATE TO YESTERDAY'S POSTS...

If you can believe, I came home last night to another flashing light on the answering machine. And yes, there was another message for Orange-Ray. THAT'S RIGHT-- even after changing my outgoing message to address the problem.

The latest installment went as follows:

"Orange-Ray? Did Pappy let you in? 'Kay, bye."

So there's a Nana-Pam, Paw-Paw AND Pappy. The cast of characters grows!

Also, in listening to this message, I think I MAY be wrong about the Orange-Ray name. It might be some very drawn out, multi-syllabic version of "Andre." (Owendre?) But I can't make my vowel do the stretching exercises to make it work realistically.

So today, my friends, we have the answer to last week's "What's That? Wednesday" game, and I have some giveaway winners to announce! Woo-hoo!

The correct answer to the mystery object is...

A deodorant protective cap!

So the first person to guess that correctly was Ms. Hartz! Let's give a big round of applause to Ms. Hartz for her awesome eyes on this one!

And for the question of what the item's alternate use in my house is, the answer is:

A cat toy! This was not, of course, by my design, but through popular demand at my house. Apparently, that little tab at the top makes it perfect for tiny furred beings to bite onto it and bring it to me, over and over and over again, for endless sessions of fetch... HARRY. (Yes, I'm talking about you.)

So that means the first person to guess the item's alternate use-- a cat toy-- is Reforming Geek! Way to go, Geek Gal! You do know your cat toys!

So each of you two nifty people will win a copy of my humorous space fantasy novel, There Goes the Galaxy. I will need you to just email me at jennthorson {at} earthlink {dot} net with your addresses and I will mail your books out to you right away.

Oh, and if anyone is interested in ordering their own copies of the book, in either paperback, for Kindle, or Nook you can do that here. They also make fun gifts for folks who like a little humor with their sci-fi. (Both Nook and Kindle versions are currently priced at $0.99, so it's easy on the wallet, too!) :

Greetings, folks! Today we're going to play a little game I have lifted from my friend Kathy of the Junk Drawer because 1.) Kathy is an innovator and 2.) it has been a case of "long time no blog" here on Cabbages and I didn't want you all to think I had fallen off the face of the Earth or that I didn't love you anymore.

The game is called What's That? Wednesday. All you have to do is guess what the object up at the top of the page is and share your answer in the comments section. The first person to guess correctly will win a copy of my comic space fantasy novel There Goes the Galaxy.

And for some added fun, for the person who correctly guesses what alternate use this item has in my household, that person will also win a copy of my book. (No, no one person can win two copies. We want to spread the freebie goodness around here.) I will announce the winners next week at this time so everyone has a chance to play.

It should be noted that I personally am terrible at these sorts of games, which Kathy can attest to because I have left many a lame answer in her comments section over the years. I am also horrible about guessing how many items are in a jar, or how much change I have dropped on the floor because my purse wasn't closed, holding up the line and annoying the heck out of the people in line behind me.

"And if you act now, you'll get twice the amount of shouting for your grouting FREE! That's two times the number of decibels per ear than you'll find in stores!"

I was having the morning java and checking email messages when a sound in the background caught my attention.

It was an infomercial ad with a loud, gravelly-familiar voice that I knew Simply. Could. Not. Be.

Billy Mays?! But Mr. Mays has passed, leaving a void in the all-important Product Demonstration and Shouting niche market.

Sure, an Australian guy had tried for a while to sell us super-mops and shammies and made us aware of the deep, infiltrating inadequacy and safety issues of our dirty car headlight covers. But that guy didn't really know us, did he? He didn't really understand that we are unmotivated to remove pet stains on our carpet for a low price of $19.95 and even doubling our order if we act now, when the benefits are told to us in a bright Aussie accent.

No, we need a good old-fashioned American Man to shout at us with all the zeal of that uncle who dines on meat for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. One who hugs all the kids in the family just a BIT too hard causing the occasional rib fracture, but only because it's done with love.

So when I looked up from my email, I was unsure what I would see. Had Billy Mays been cryogenically sealed in a vacuum-protected food preservation device that makes tomatoes and other produce last twice as long, just pay shipping and handling, and now he had returned to us?

Why no! This was a new Purveyor of Products. A fresh new face in As Seen On TV treasures!

Marc Gill is his name, he tells us, and while his head may be shinier than that of his predecessor, his style is eerily similar. Yes, Marc has come to save us from the Australians, from the ShamWow scandals, from not having tile grout that glows as brightly as Tom Cruise's teeth.

I realized then how great our loss had been. It had been at least a year since I had been shouted at regarding pipe drains and dirty sinks and whites that could be so much whiter. I had not been informed at great volumes how my clothes could all fit into a Ziploc sandwich bag to save more space.

But now, we have Marc Gill to fill the empty spaces that only jolly ear-bleeding vocal projection can soothe.

I sunk back into my chair, a sense of renewed peace washing over me, and looked at my coffee mug. Why, this mug wasn't travel-safe and impact resistant, able to take the force of a two-ton car running over it or a herd of water buffalo...

Ah, but it's all okay, isn't it? Because I know in a few months, our new friend Marc will undoubtedly have the answer. And I'll be sure to hear it, no matter where I am.

I was talking with a friend the other day about what, as children of the 70s and 80s, we were and weren't allowed to watch on television. And looking back, the overarching results are pretty entertaining:

If the stuffed clown doll tries to strangle a child protagonist: Jenn can watch it

If a dude with an axe threatens his wife Olive Oyl in remote hotel location: Jenn can watch it

If a boy is eaten by a possessed tree: Jenn can watch it

If possessed trees uproot themselves for world domination: Jenn can watch it

If a hotel owner pokes lots of holes in Jamie Lee Curtis' mom in a shower, while dressed like grandma: Jenn can watch it

If plague-ridden, scythe-carrying seamen go after Jamie Lee Curtis, her mom and Adrienne Barbeau during a weather anomaly: Jenn can watch it.

If Melanie Griffith's mom gets nearly killed by pretty birdies, and Bob Newhart's first wife gets pecked to death: Jenn can watch it

If little creatures live in the fireplace and go after a housewife named Sally: Jenn can watch it.

If Kurt Russell is in Alaska with aliens: Jenn can watch it

If Kurt Russell is in San Francisco with ancient Chinese evil: Jenn can watch it

If Kurt Russell has only one eye in a post-apocalyptic society, and Adrienne Barbeau isn't being chased by plague-ridden seamen: Jenn can watch it

(Hmmm, now starting to wonder about this Mom-Kurt Russell trend...)

Anyway:

What Jenn could not watch, under penalty of no-phone-calls-to-friends-which-might-as-well-have-been-death was:

Charlie's Angels. I never did find out what my mother's problem with this show was, other than she said she felt they were poor role models for a girl. Ironically, I was allowed to watch James Bond films with Dad because, apparently, Pussy Galore was candidate for a Nobel Prize or something. Go fig.

Any John Waters films. I knew why I wasn't allowed to watch these films. It was explained to me like this: these movies were about teenagers who "Sassed Their Parents."

So now that years have passed, I've finally figured it out. The logic was, monsters and evil clown dolls (and Jamie Lee Curtis' boobs) weren't real. But Kids who Sassed Their Parents were real.

I had posted this tale a few months ago, prior to giving my novel the launch. But I thought now that There Goes the Galaxy is officially out there in the world, I would repost it for the folks who missed it.

This short story uses two characters found in There Goes the Galaxy, and it takes place a Universal year or so before that storyline. People who are reading or have finished the book are likely to recognize 'em.

Enjoy!

_____________________________

The Hyphiz Deltan Job

Never agree to be Lookout when you’re
pressure-locked into a Personal Smoking Enjoyment helmet,
Tseethe Tsardonee decided.

It was
a lesson learned.

Sure,
the headgear met Greater Communicating Universe public safety standards. And
since Tseethe had been smoking so long, he’d evolved to actually feed off the stuff, well, it wasn’t like
the helmet was exactly optional these days. It was medicinal. Survival. Prescribed even.

He was
smoking his way to continued good health.

But the
heavy bubble around his head and neck reduced his peripheral vision. It
compromised his reaction time. As a result, Tseethe looked out across the
desolate Hyphiz Deltan street and jumped at every shadow before his
smoke-fogged lens. He leapt at every crackle of sound that filtered through the
in-helmet audio.

So much
for that air of brusque, fearsome self-possession he’d worked so hard to craft.
It was the first time, during any job, Tseethe felt like a liability.

Not
that he’d ever tell Rolliam Tsmorlood that. Tseethe still needed the yoonies
from this job to fund his own Underworld endeavors-- projects light years more
profitable and dignified than busting into a Print Liberation Lounge to steal
something that sane lifeforms across the galaxy couldn’t get rid of fast enough.

Of
course, “sane” and “Rollie” were rarely said together. Here, Tseethe’s partner
fragged the LibLounge surveillance system to nanoparticles, as if to make the
point.

“Um,
nice little fire ya got going there.” Even Tseethe could see the flames licking
what was left of the Klinko® Intruder Repellant System.

“Aw, it’ll
burn out in a minute,” Rollie assured him.

The
camera box melted in on itself.

“Er, prob’ly.”
Something spit and flared. “Any time.” Rollie cleared his throat and redirected
his XJ-37 handlaser to the LibLounge front doors. “Besides…” he said, finger on
the trigger, relish in his voice, “now comes the fun bit.”

But The
Fun Bit hit a detour, as the doors whisked open. A voice shrieked, “Don’t
shoot! We’ll give you anything you want! Just don’t hurt us!”

Frantically,
Tseethe whirled from his post, scanning for the source of the voice. Was it a
ploy or an employee?

The
LibLounge stood strangely still under the early morning moons.

And Rollie
Tsmorlood began to laugh.

“What?”
hissed Tseethe, “What is even a little bit funny about this? And who the frag was
that?” He’d turned so fast, sweat from his forehead had splattered and trickled
down the inside of his helmet. He flipped on his dehumidifier. “Some poor froob
better not be in that shop. Because you know I don’t do hostage situations.”

“Relax,
mate… It’s a Property Personality Module.” Rollie was still chuckling. ”Read
about ‘em in Creative Criminal Weekly.
” He vanished into the darkened Lounge. His gear on the hovercart followed him dutifully.

Tseethe
frowned at the clear street before him. “For what possible purpose?”

“Real
estate insurance lobbied for it. Architecture that does its own threat
assessment and acts accordingly. Supposed to reduce property damage claims.”

Tseethe
sniffed. “And how is it on theft?”

“Funny
you mention it. Turns out, most people want security systems that don’t give up
under duress. So it’s all being hashed out in court.”

A lantern
pierced the darkness, and Tseethe turned to see Rollie crouching beside a drop-off
bin just inside the door. “Meantime, it’s all gone silent alarms again.” Rollie
pulled an electronic lockpick from his toolbox and slapped it on the bin.
“Which reminds me: aren’t you supposed to be looking out? Never know when the
night shift RegForce’ll make their rounds.”

That was
Mandatory Sleep on the planet of Hyphiz Delta, a time when all sensible native
Hyphizites completely shut down, hearts slowing to nothing, brain activity
minimal…

They
wouldn’t feel a growing night chill, the pinch of a passive-aggressive spouse
or even hear the friendly sounds of, say, breaking-and-entering.

Due to this
biological quirk, Hyphiz Delta was well-protected from outside invasion, but the
government hadn’t really focused on rebellion from within. Its people were
prosperous and crime rates were practically microscopic. Since criminal
activity was never formally scheduled, no one ever tried it.

Okay, occasionally there’d be some renegade
who challenged Regimentation in a public way. But the offender would be
captured, labeled a prib and promptly exiled from the star system.

Tseethe
knew it happened. He’d done it. Of course, there were always ways of getting
back in.

“Y’know,
it’s been a fraggin’ long time since I’ve even been to a LibLounge,” Tseethe
mused now, leaning against the wall. “I get my infopills delivered these days. Cheap,
easy, saves time.”

Rollie
didn’t respond.

“I
mean, what’s the allure of sitting around, sucking down capsules and yammering with
strangers about what you just digested? Like anyone cares. They’re probably
just talking to hear themselves talk.”

A beep and a curse emanated from the Lounge, as Rollie adjusted the lockpick’s
settings.

“And it’s
not like I have any print to bring in,” Tseethe continued. “I gave you what I
had when the Purges began. So as far as needing the public incinerator…”

Shrugging,
he could hear the device start up again. These electronic lockbusters were
kinda hit-or-miss with decoding non-residential items. There were no
standardized systems. So mostly, you had to make an educated guess and hope for
the best.

“Plus
the food here… those mud-thick nutrients shakes…” Tseethe grimaced. “Sure, some
people love ‘em, but I say, ‘Give me a bottle of Carsoolian pod liquor and a
funnel and I’m a happy—‘”

At the
end of the street, something wavered, something Tseethe hoped was a simple
trick of the streetlight on his in-helmet smoke. A second glance proved, as
always, that hope was not quite enough. “Rollie, they’re coming. About five
hundred kroms and closing.”

“How
many?”

“Two. Looks
like a standard surveillance patrol. Haven’t spotted us yet, but...” He turned
to check on progress. The device flashed an unhelpful yellow.

“RegForce,”
growled Rollie, “If only they’d sleep the sleep of the Just, Productive and
Fraggin’ Dull, like everyone else on the planet.” The man’s orange-gold eyes
were fixed on the lockbuster. His fingers moved across the device slowly,
methodically, as he scanned for the right unlocking sequence.

Tseethe
turned back to the street, tracing the progress of the uniformed beings. Now
that they were closer, he could see they were short, dark humanoids—pretty much
the opposite of your average native Hyphiz Deltan—all of them with the same
bland features, the same perfect hair. It only meant one thing.

Rollie
was still fooling with that decoding device like it was some Vos Laegos
showgirl at an after-hours party.

Tseethe
let out an exasperated sigh. “Will ya laser the fragging bin, already? We don’t
have time for this stuff.”

But
Rollie fixed him with an astonished glare. “Laser it?! There’s print in
there.”

“Oh. Of
course,” Tseethe snapped, arms to the heavens. “What was I thinking? We can’t
laser it; there’s print.” He
laughed and shook his head. “Un-fraggin’-believable! Here you are, happy to stun,
melt, disintegrate or blow up anything in a thirty krom radius, unless it
happens to be a completely obsolete hard copy of…of…” Tseethe pulled a title
off the top of his head. “,,,P.K.
Flutterbitt’s Field Guide to Deep Space Fauna and What Will Eat Your
Ship. Or… The Black Hole
Vacation Planner. Or The
Intergalactic Gourmet’s Supernova Meals in a NanoSecond.”

Rollie
opened his mouth to protest but Tseethe wasn’t done. “Ninety-eight percent of
the GCU has gratefully switched to infopill for its flexibility and instant
knowledge. Yet you approach the LibLounge purging bin like you’re looting the Mighty
Regal Coffers of—“

The
metal bin opened, sending an echoing avalanche of print rumbling, tumbling to
the floor.

The
robo-RegForce heard that all right and, almost as one, they blazed a trail straight
for the LibLounge.

“Incoming!”
Tseethe checked the settings on his handlaser. It was an XJ-36, an affordable
model, but versatile enough for both distance and close-range.

Rollie
was stacking the print into his hoverbox as fast as he could. “It’s the smell,
isn’t it?” he said meditatively. “Of time, and use and experiences. You don’t
get that with an infopill.”

“It’s
fire-or-bail time, man.” Tseethe braced his helmet against the doorframe and
prepped to fire; the XJ-36 had kick.

“Print’s
tactile. Requires a bit of effort,” Rollie went on. “And portable, but never
gives you indigestion.”

“Fire-or-bail!”
Tseethe shouted. “Fire-or-bail!”

“Whereas,
you down an infopill with a Feegar bourbon-- I guarantee, mate, you’ll be
coughing up whole paragraphs of chemical coding before the night is through.”

Tseethe
fired-- one! two! In seconds, the Simulant RegForce officers were flat-out and
fried across the LibLounge Welcome mat. Systems sparked. Fluids oozed. The fear
sensors in the front doors were crying hysterically from witness trauma.

Tseethe
stepped over to admire his laser work, and was impressed how much collateral
damage had come from two clean shots. Sure, the Simulants could probably be
rebuilt, but it would cost the RegForce more than a few yoonies. Not to mention
all the paperwork they’d have to file with the Non-Organic Simulant labor
union. Those guys were sticklers.

Turning,
he saw Rollie holster his own still-smoking weapon. Tseethe had suspected there
had been more laserfire than just his, but with lasers, you never could tell.
He always wondered why the manufacturers didn’t add a little noise, make ‘em
glow blue or something, just for safety and dramatic effect.

Somebody should send them a comm, he
thought.

“Time
to launch,” Rollie announced. The filled hoverbox rose from the ground and
hummed gently, stirring up crumbs and wrappers and print ash that hadn’t been
caught by the LibLounge cleaning robots. It ruffled the top-layer of print in
the hoverbox.

It
ruffled the pages of Moople the
Mootaab Goes to Mig Verlig.

Tseethe
gave a short, sharp inhale. “Stop!” And he slammed his hand down on the
hoverbox power button. The box sank and whirred to the ground. The print
settled.

“Frag
it all, Tseethe, what gives?”

Tseethe
barely heard him as he smoothed the book’s cover with a trembling hand. Moople the Mootaab Goes to Mig Verlig. Through
smoke, he read the title twice, just to be sure.

The
slim volume was faded and stained. It depicted a young mootaab running away from
home, separating from the Great Purple Herd. This uncertain creature stood in
the busy mass transit depot of the Farthest Reaches Cosmos Corral, holding a
ticket in one of its six feet, and leading luggage twice its size. (Unusual behavior
for your average livestock, Tseethe granted, but Hyphiz Deltan kid lit took
liberties.)

“Tseethe,
mate, something wrong?” he heard Rollie say faintly.

But far
from wrong, it was all flooding back. Suddenly Tseethe recalled dozens of
important life lessons Moople the Mootaab had taught him. Like why you should
never even think of separating from the herd. Why you should adhere to a strict
daily Regimentation Schedule. And why you should never, ever, ever
discharge an XR-25 handlaser without proper supervision.

“You’re
not hit, are you?”

“Nah,”
Tseethe managed.

He was
hit, though-- stun-gunned by memories, lasered by time. He hadn’t seen Moople the Mootaab Goes to Mig Verlig since
he was barely out of Didactics classes. His second-level maternal archetype--
he called her “Nana” --used to read the tale to him in a hard copy version,
just like this. That book once belonged to her M.A. Sure, the
story was total Hyphiz Deltan propaganda, but it was also a Tsardonee tradition.
There was even an XR-25 handlaser-- really just a starter weapon-- that they
passed down along with it, from generation to generation.

If it
hadn’t been for Moople the
Mootaab and his whiny conformist ways, Tseethe Tsardonee might never
have become the creative, independent thinker that made him the up-and-comer in
the Underworld he was today. And he had that brainwashed, six-legged purple
skein of fiber to thank for it.

“Look,
mate, we’d better launch,” Rollie was saying. “Don’t know how many Simulants
signed on for night shift, yeah?”

“Oh.”
Tseethe looked up, as Rollie powered the hoverbox again.

It
rose, swirling up more crumbs and blowing an old bookmark from the collection
bin.

“Right,”
said Tseethe. “And, um… this is mine.” His hand shot out and grabbed Moople off the stack. He drew it toward
his helmet, turned off his air filters and inhaled deeply. The book smelled
like the impact-resistant polymers and tangy astrodynamic metals of a good
old-fashioned in-ship toy storage unit.

Tseethe
realized Rollie was staring at him. “It’s y’know: payment. For my help.” He
cleared his throat. “Along with
the yoonies you owe me, of course.”

Rollie
glanced from the book to Tseethe and back again, one pale eyebrow reaching new
stratospheres in query. “Of course…”

“Stellar.”
Tseethe tucked the book under his arm. “So let’s go. What’re we waiting for--
the whole fragging RegForce to bust down the doors?”

But
Tseethe and Rollie were already slipping through darkened streets on their way
to the ship, the hoverbox of print trailing close behind. Some might have said
it was a little like a young mootaab reunited with its herd, after a tiring
adventure.

Of
course, Tseethe wouldn’t have. He barely noticed it through the smoke.

Ah, the excitement! The drama! The... er... two small, furry creatures butting in front of the camera trying to get involved in every aspect of the event whether I want their help or not...

Such was the Of Cabbages and Kings blog drawing for copies of my new humorous sci-fi novel, There Goes the Galaxy!

Now, this was a highly-technical process. First I wrote the names of everyone who left a comment on the giveaway post on small slips of paper and placed them in a bowl. Then my whiskered companion, Harry, got in the way while I went to take a photo to prove I had done this. So I moved him out of the way. (Repeat ten times and ultimately give up, leaving the following...)

Lovely plumage.

And then we closed our eyes and drew the following two names:

Yes, congratulations to John and Shirley! You have each won a copy of There Goes the Galaxy. Please email me at jennthorson [at] earthlink [dot] net with your addresses and I will send you your book.

If the books remain unclaimed by noon of October 5, I'll redraw a new name, so someone else can receive the copy of the book.

Also note: the separate GoodReads giveaway has closed, too! I have to pop off and see who the winners are there. GoodReads notifies those winners directly and I will be shipping off those book copies today.

It's got humor... fantasy... science fictioniness... and all the other things you want in a good book like, um, pages that turn and a spine that holds it all together! And best of all, if you leave a comment answering the question below, I'll put you in a drawing for one of two free copies of my novel, There Goes the Galaxy.

So, think about it... pages that turn, a spine, and I'll even throw in a totally cosmic cover attached to it, designed by my friend Dave, all for FREE if you're the lucky commentor chosen from the drawing!

And if you don't want to go through all the hassle of a drawing, but think you might want a copy of the book in either softback or ebook form, you can order it on Amazon here. (It's also in ebook form on Amazon.co.uk for my UK friends.)

This was prompted by a Google search that came to my blog the other day. Someone was looking for "Henry the Eighth for Kids." Once I stopped snickering over the image of The Tudors filmed for a pre-school crowd--- ("you see, Timmy, when a King and his courtier love each other very, very much. Or, well, y'know, they dance together for five seconds at the Royal Ball and find they both don't have plans for afterwards...") --anyway, it really got my creative mind a-turning. So today I give you the Please-Don't-Read-This-To-Your-Children version of 'Henry the Eighth for Kids'":

Count Along with Henry Tudor!

Henry Tudor was a king, In England long agoSeven Henrys ruled beforeThis Henry had his go.

Now, Henry Eight, he had six wivesThough not at the same timeFor that, dear kids, is "bigamy"With no place in this rhyme

So count to One and we will meetQueen Catherine AragonShe was the One who bore no sonSo Henry said, "So long."

See, boys back then were very prizedBut girls were not so blessed.Today each child is loved the same.(Still, Dad likes Junior best.)

So Catherine was sent awayAnd now we count to TwoIt's Anne Boleyn, the courtesanWho Henry sought to woo

This Anne, she had a daughter LizBut still no bouncing boyTwo children now King Henry hadYet no heir brought him joy

And in these days was no divorceSo Mommy stayed with DadAnd Dad with Mommy, even ifShe had a new friend Chad.

So Henry said good-bye to AnneIn his medieval wayWithout divorce, he saw no course.She lost her head one day

The word "decapitation" means"To leave without your cap."Mention it to mommy onceWhen she asks you to nap.

No, nevermind-- let's move alongQuick now to Number ThreeJane Seymour stepped upon the stage(Without Kay Jewelry).

Jane had the son of Henry's dreamsThe apple of his eyeBut birth was rough and times were toughAnd Jane, she sadly died.

So let's count Four to Anne of ClevesThat's two queens now named AnneSince this blind date won't turn out greatAnnulment's Henry's plan

"Annulment" means to marry andto say it doesn't countLike "cooties, no takebacksies" does.It gave the King an out.

"Knock, knock," came the sound on my passenger window at the grocery store parking lot. An elderly man with a cane was standing there, motioning. I rolled down the window with 68% certainty this wasn't a clever new snatch-and-grab ploy for car-jacking or, oh, for stealing the thrifted Oasis CD off my passenger seat.

(I can just see it now, as they sit around the retirement home common area with a stack of their lifted CD booty: "Is he saying 'wonderwall'? What in dadgum tarnation is a 'wonderwall', Elsie?"... And no, I don't know, either. It is catchy, but it confounds my days.)

(Then again, I don't know where Tarnation is. I think it might be out west near Perfection and Desperation.)

But I digress. A lot. Because, see, the nice man who was the complete opposite of a carjacker or CD thief in his do-gooderness had simply stopped to inform me that my right front tire was almost flat.

This was not unlike the situation two months ago where kind-hearted guys in a sports car waved at me at a red light to tell me that... my right front tire was almost flat.

Or my awesomely cool coworker, two months before that, who called me in my office to tell me that... yes, you guessed it. My tire was of the non-airfilled variety.

Three things we learn from this:

1.) People in Pittsburgh are caring and wonderful to strangers in a way that is almost mind-blowing. (Thank you, Pittsburgh!)

2.) I am too lazy and distracted to make time for regular car maintenance.

And 3.) This stupid tire had a breathing problem and I needed to have it examined.

Because this tire-- this brand new frigging tire-- had been slowly losing air week by week from the time I bought it. I would pump up, but then it would deflate again and just need more attention.

So it was more like a big name film star, than a tire, really. Or Meryl Streep's character in The Devil Wears Prada. You could never attend to it enough. Just when you'd think it had everything it needed, it would deflate, demand, and you'd have to blow air into its ego once more.

Thankfully, since we're in Pittsburgh, we have the solution to driving divas like this. Places like Duke's Tire, one of those old timey mom-and-pop (mostly pop) places which almost don't exist anymore, where the service is quick, efficient and, most importantly, they don't take guff from uppity rubber spheres with a need for regular adulation.

I was expecting them to find a nail, a tack, or water buffalo, or like the one time I had tire issues, the better part of a metal file. But it turns out there was a leak around the gasket. And in minutes, the good ol' Duke boys replaced it and sealed it for $15-- and a look of apology as if they feared they charged too much.

It warms the cockles of the heart, I tell you. All of them, those cockles. Not that I know what cockles are.

Step Right In, and Welcome!

Welcome to Of Cabbages and Kings, the blog of author, Jenn Thorson. Here you'll find updates on the There Goes the Galaxy humorous sci-fi bookseries and other writing projects. Also expect to see musings on pop culture, grammar nerdism, literary nose-tweaking, a few feisty aliens, all united for gleeful, eccentric fun.

Come, savor the Cabbage-- for it is funny, fresh and unexpectedly tasty!

About Yours Truly

Greetings, good people! I am a MacGyver-er of words, drinker of caffeines and sitter at desks. I currently have a humorous sci-fi trilogy out called There Goes the Galaxy. (The books are called There Goes the Galaxy (book 1) and The Purloined Number (book 2) and Tryfling Matters. If you're curious about that, I hope you'll pop by my website at: www.jennthorson.com

If You Enjoy This Blog

You might also enjoy my humorous space fantasy novels, There Goes the Galaxy andThe Purloined Number (There Goes the Galaxy #2), both available in paperback and ebook forms. Click here to learn more about them on my book website: www.jennthorson.com